"LENGO MITHAROS!"
The knight's smile beamed as he passed through the crowd. The entire kingdom had flocked to the capital’s central road to send off the royal army. Beneath his horse he could feel the thunder of the thousand riders behind him, but all he could hear was the chant.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
His black destrier whinnied, its powerful body rippling under the saddle. The knight patted the steed reassuringly on the neck and spurred it onwards. It seemed nobody, not even the horses, were eager to pass under the front gates. The road was long, wide and well paved, the stones even and easy on the horses. It went from the front gates of the City, all the way up the gentle hill to the castle in a straight line. On either side the street was flanked by cozy wooden buildings. The structures facing the street were primarily commercial, teeming with life and sound. Shops, smiths, and taverns alike all extended their warmth to travelling passersby. Today was a good day for business. Today they were all full. Today their patrons roared.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
Turning in his saddle, the knight looked back up the road towards the castle; towards the king he was riding off to die for. It was an impressive structure indeed. Six connected marble towers inclined gently, forming a conical base for a colossal steel pillar. Wider at the bottom, the pillar tapered off at the top to a fine point. A point, according to city legend, sharper than any blade. Centuries ago all six of the Great Kings came together to form a peace treaty in an attempt to rid the land of war. When they built the capital at the meeting point between all six kingdoms, they envisioned a grand metal spear to tower overhead and observe the land. So the six kings melted the spare armor and weapons from their combined armies and turned the steel into the panels used to build the pillar. In the end, they produced an enormous cone, and leaned six towers up against its base, one for each of the kingdoms. The final product was the magnificent colossus in the center of the City: Silverlance Keep.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
As to the people, the masses had gathered for one singular purpose. War. For some reason or another the people of this kingdom have always been attracted to violence. The reason the knights rode out now is to lead a final assault against the Collin forces. The usurpers believed that the unified kingdom should be once again split into six again. For some reason the knight couldn’t comprehend, they had pledged not to rest until the king’s head lay on a pike in front of the Keep. Twelve years ago they began their conquest, slaying man woman and child alike in an attempt to provoke the royal army. The King had attempted to end the tyrants before, but without success. The Collin have masked their hierarchy well, leaving their leaders shrouded in mystery. Employing brilliant strategies, the Collin forces have never lost a battle, nor have they let a single man be taken captive. As much as the war chant filled the knights heart with pride, there was a dark fog brewing in his heart, a crippling fear of defeat. But he would not share his thoughts. His fellow soldiers needn’t be discouraged by such things. The knights marched on.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
The procession was now reaching the front gates of the City. The knight righted himself upon his horse, and refocused on the task at hand. He was young for a knight, only twenty-five years of age. Occasionally the older veterans would jest at him about his youth. He would always laugh, for he was a respectful lad, but in secret the words stung. Not because he wished to be old, but because they thought him a child. The reason he had become a knight so young in the first place was because of his unmatched swordsmanship. If he chose, he could cut through some of the older knights like a hot blade slices butter. Yet still they joked. Every time (even when he felt like hitting them), he calmed his mind and stilled his hand, and accepted his recurring title as “Fighty Boy”. Today, however, nobody paid enough mind to jest. Today was a day of glory, and as the crowds screamed on, the young knight felt his heart beat faster. When he passed under the huge stone arches of the front gates, he would no longer be just another knight. The next time he returned, he would be a hero… if he returned.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
As his section of the parade met the last of the cheering crowd and passed under the arching gates, the young knight looked over his shoulder once more. As valiant as his heart felt, his mind whispered hints of sadness. Doubt. Regret. This would be the first time he’d ever left his home city. Out here, when he crossed swords with someone it wouldn’t be with the intention of training. Out here, blades are only swung to kill. Though the thousands of the kingdom’s greatest knights were riding with him now, the Collin forces were said to be numerous and impossibly deadly. A farmer had rushed into the city several weeks before claiming his farm hand been burned to the ground, and his family slaughtered. The farmer said he was able to count the forces that attacked him, and they numbered close to one hundred thousand.
"LENGO MITHAROS!"
There were only seven thousand knights in the procession, so those who had already passed the gates had begun to form rank while they waited. The young knight fell in line beside one of his veteran jesters. Besides “Fighty Boy”, the man was actually quite humorous and likeable. He had a slight, trimmed beard and a receding hairline, flecked grey with age. His eyes were perpetually wide, as if on alert at all times, but the corners were well wrinkled with laugh lines. The younger knight felt better knowing that his riding companion would at least be pleasant, though he was slightly embarrassed as he did not know the man’s name. He did not bother to ask.
“Excuse me.” The voice of the young knight seemed to register instantly with the older one, and the veteran broke into a warm smile.
“Quite the parade, eh? This is the first time even I’ve seen anything this grand. Lucky boy.” The veteran’s voice was gruff but lighthearted.
“It certainly was magnificent, but I’m confused. What are the words they’ve been chanting?”
The older man raised an eyebrow, a savage grin spreading across his face.
“Lengo Mitharos. It’s Old Beillan. It means ‘Long live your legend.’”
Before the younger man had time to register what that might mean, the knights had finished parading and the chanting died down. Without the roar of the masses the young knights heart filled with fear again, and as he looked around, he began to see the other knight’s true faces. Fear. Doubt. Despair. His fellow soldiers were no braver than he. In his looking, the young knight had not seen the ranks beginning to part. Hearing hooves behind him, he ungracefully yanked the reins to the right, causing his destrier to sidestep awkwardly into position. A few other knights laughed. Ashamed, the young knight looked away, glimpsing the Grand General Warhowl riding up the line. When he reached the front of the men he turned, unsheathed his sword, and raised it in the air. He spoke in a commanding gravelly voice.
“For the City and Silverlance! For your families and children! FOR THE KING!” When he swung his sword, the knights erupted in a roar so ferocious a lion would’ve whimpered. But there was no heart in it. It was a fake cry, and attempt to show their strength but their heart betrayed their weakness. Then they began their ride, hearts thumping in their chests, horse hooves beating into the dirt. Without the crowd chanting the sound of the animals was nothing short of an earthquake. To nobody in particular, the young knight whispered under his breath.
“Lengo Mitharos.” He knew he was not coming back, but at least he would have his legend. With that, he dug his heels into his horse, and set off to war.